Remember Indigo

July 8, 2016

I saw you at the coffee shop

several months ago.

I pulled out a chair and you walked in.

Your hair was full of snow.


Five years ago I told you

that I never would forget

the concerts, secrets, artwork shared,

the goodbye found at the end.


I figured you'd forget our friendship

and move on, just as you do,

and you'd find a quick replacement,

swapping "indigo" for "blue."


I still don't know if you remembered

when you looked at me that day -

I had a ponytail, black coat, white gloves,

and I stood near the stairway.


But in the instant that you saw me -

your eyes familiar gray -

I looked down at my coffee

and turned

and walked away.

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